Lovely Penguin

by marie gordon

I resolve….

To not eat kittens
To not drink beer
To not be an asshole

Because I’m a good person
I’m unique and special
And all that shit

I resolve to get better
To stop eating PB & crack
Sandwiches that make me quiver

I shall continue
To strive toward lesser-perfection
Reveling in a pliable personality

Because I’ve got a mantra:
I’m a good person
With clichés to back it up

If you think I aim low
Don’t judge my shoes
And I won’t steal your identity

My resolution is complete.

by marie gordon

I watched blue tiles
Float in front of me
As I hobbled around
Under the water in the shower

And I wondered as I hit
The side of the wall
And my head went black
If I’m just a little figment

Does the world hold me
In its mind process
Like a novel little idea
That it shows off to fellow systems

Am I a dot of space and time
Do I stand a chance
Against history’s forgetfulness
Or will I smudge into the oblique past

At what point do I wake up
Can I tell someone that
I want to be here under the water
Can someone turn off the moving tiles?

(vision steadies) Thank you

another australia pic- gudlom falls just north of darwin in kakadu national park.

I wrote this story a few years ago. Although it’s sad, it tells a story about growing up and accepting that some tragedies, or pre-moral evils, occur without explanation. Growing up, for me, wasn’t always about finding answers, but accepting that reality doesn’t always happen for the best, or teach a special lesson. Reality just is. For some reality is there to face and for others it is there to fear.

*This is my account of a real occurrence. The actuality of my experience is totally subjective, thus I consider it a fiction-type account of a non-fiction story. It is not a factual report by any means.

Having said all that, I hope you like it By the way, Merry Christmas a little late.

by marie gordon
I know this—they never had the chance, Amy and Carrie—I stand in the park next to the yellow roses, having my senior portrait taken and I remember their faces. Were they more graceful, I always thought Amy was. Were they more enthusiastic, I always thought Carrie was. For them, this day doesn’t exist, not in life. For me it does, and why do I take it for granted?
I’ve passed by their site, a thousand times—it’s the spot that marks a moment that should’ve changed my life. I was pulled over for speeding, almost twenty miles per hour over the limit. Did it affect me? I remember my best friend calling to tell me she couldn’t make it to my fourteenth birthday party; I forgot Erin’s birthday, missed her party, and called to apologize. Did I learn?
In the wooden pew, looking measly and casual before the alter, I pray for them.
Does God help them if I’m wearing blue jeans? What did I wear to Amy’s wake? Remembering youth, feeling as if I owned the world, obstinate and content, I see a spot where it all shatters—I see the clear glass scattered across the black pavement, I see the medics running with the their bags, I see the tree scarred on one side, and I see them. Were they alive? Was Amy breathing as they tore her clothes off on the ground and lifted her and rolled her to the helicopter? Was Carrie aware of what happened and could she see in her final moments? Did they see me, turning away in disgust at the sight, rushing to get home for an afternoon snack? Did they recognize my face?
What happened to Carrie’s freckles, pink cheeks and rosy smile? What happened to Amy’s long auburn hair and sophisticated expression? I always envied them because they were in the gifted classes. In my memories of Amy and Carrie I see entrepreneur Carrie selling Airheads in the locker-room after gym class and Amy smiling, wrapping a towel around us to shield the wind on our boat at Sea Camp. Except for short glimpses of our conversations on the bus, few other pictures of them remain.
A moment that I know will not relinquish, as I dream of erasing it from me entirely. Yet I know what its affect should be. I saw Amy’s mother at the wake in a wheel chair. She faces charges for homicide. Did she kill them? Hasn’t she paid the price? The neighbors have spotted her driving recklessly fast since the accident.
I see Zack in the hallway. He was their best friend. The trio we called them. He lost everything he ever knew. He started with a fresh memory. He does not remember the accident. He comes in hung-over on Mondays and a girl in our class has accused him of sexual harassment. He has lost what once was genius ability. His coordination will never fully recover. If it weren’t for my memories of him, I might mistake him for a typical, partying high school guy. But I know him as their best friend. Does he remember them at all? Would he recognize their faces?
When you’re thirteen, you think you’re invisible. I thought I was above God, if he existed. I thought I had everything; I knew it. Amy and Carrie were part of what I had. The first car back in the intersection, as policemen kept the entire road at a stand-still in an effort to save to save two lives. I just wanted to get home. As the helicopter landed and I glanced around, sitting next to my mother, whose eyes teared-up in the car, I stared at the evidence coldly, recalling the many crime-scene shows I’d watched on T.V. Already investigators had arrived, gathering evidence in tubs and bags. Maybe I winced when I saw the girl, Amy, stripped to her undergarments, as medics rolled her stretcher into a helicopter and took off. When the ambulance took Zack away, did I wonder who was inside?
It’s Christmastime. I believe, but cannot feel God here. Amy used to play piano beautifully, her father said. She’d told me how she loved music. Carrie loved to ski. At her wake they blushed her cheeks to make her look as if she’d just come inside from the cold.
Yellow roses, crosses, flags, cards their friends still place by the tree. I run often on that road, but never past the tree. I cross myself when I drive past. I see them. I feel guilt, hurt, jealousy, anger, confusion and love. I do not know where they are now. I only know, the roses, the flowers, the crosses—someone loved them.
I sit down at my piano bench. It’s late at night and I’m thinking of them, asking once more why I must remember, why God took them, why I cannot feel the coming of Jesus. I play “Coventry Carol” and with the ancient notes the tears roll down my cheeks. Have I forsaken them, have I forsaken my best friend, have I forsaken God and my family? Where are they? Can their families celebrate?
Carrie’s freckles like glitter on her dimples, Amy’s hair that caught the wind as the bus pulled up to their stop, Zack always next to one of them on the bus. Some things escape my mind…pleasantries, details, birthdays… and I regret. I know I will remember. I do not need the tree, the smell of flowers, the sight of wispy auburn hair or freckles to remind me. Will peace come with time?
I place my fingers over the keys— I am not a young girl, but a woman heading off to college, hoping to leave behind old memories of high-school, leave behind the resentment and bring what I’ve learned— and play a carol that was always my favorite, for a memory, that is painfully, my own…
“O Come oh Come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here, until the son of God appear. Rejoice. Rejoice. Emmanuel shall come to thee, oh Israel.”

by marie gordon

Tied to a tiny arm
Wringing out strands
Glowing beat red
Searing in hands

My owner, a manacle
My leash, a ribbon
My cage, the sky
My bracelet skin

Floating, floating
I’m a shy balloon
Who let me go
I’ll surely perish soon

Where do the clouds
Interrupt my voyage
Where is the shade
In the sky’s foliage

The light blue puffs
Surround my red hair
They tangle my ribbon
My movements they scare

What is floating
When freedom ceases
Beyond the atmosphere
My soul releases

After a night at the Ale House we decided it would be a good idea to take a walk around the mall parking lot. Naturally, I insisted on having a chariot. Thus, here I am with my chariot and my loyal steed (Mattie).

This is a poem that I wrote a few years ago. It will be published this spring in The Archive at Duke University, one of the oldest college publications in the US. I am so excited Anyways, I hope you like it.

by marie gordon

These are my stripes
That clip one knot
Of all my struggles
In open water

Thousands, thousands
Swish, surround me
Blues and grays and whites
But I have my stripes

And there are greens
That claim they’re pink
And little sponges
Leeching squid ink squirts

The tiger sharks
The blue sea horse
The same, they blend in
Encased in mucous

Gigantic whales
Huge men o’ war
Don’t intimidate me
I— I have my stripes

My stripes don’t fade
Or camouflage
Or cower in caves
They don’t act ashamed

Oh humble fish
I, among you
Am but a striped speck
But—I have my stripes